


Meditation

by mdime02



Category: The West Wing
Genre: Angst, Drama
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-02-18
Updated: 2002-02-18
Packaged: 2019-05-15 23:13:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14799794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mdime02/pseuds/mdime02
Summary: Waiting...





	Meditation

**Author's Note:**

> A copy of this work was once archived at National Library, a part of the [ West Wing Fanfiction Central](https://fanlore.org/wiki/West_Wing_Fanfiction_Central), a West Wing fanfiction archive. More information about the Open Doors approved archive move can be found in the [announcement post](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/8325).

**Meditation**

**by:** Jana

**Disclaimer:** With the amount of torture I tend to put these guys through, I don’t think you’d want them to be mine...so I guess it’s a good thing they’re not. 

**Category:** angst/drama (warning: it’s heavy on the angst)

**Spoilers:** ITSOTG, Noel, minor others, perhaps...

**Rating:** MATURE

He’s late. I am getting tired of waiting for him to come. The clock is nearby, but I don’t look at it, don’t want to know how long it’s been...I couldn’t, anyway. I’ll just lie here, on my bed, and wait. He said that he’d come over, bring pizza and beer, and we could unwind after the long week. I left the door unlocked for him, figuring that he’d be over shortly, but he’s not here yet. I wish he would hurry. It’s quiet in here, and dark, and if Sam doesn’t show up soon I’ll get to thinking about things other than how late he is, and I don’t think I can do that. Patience is a virtue, must learn patience. I wonder what other virtues I have yet to learn? It’s not entirely true that I have no patience, I am simply selective in my use of it. Perfectly understandable. I mean, with my job you have to be, right? Okay, so maybe “selective” is too generous a word...I said I have yet to learn it, though, so I’m excused. Now where the heck is Sam? 

Sam is patient. 

And good. And thoughtful. Brilliant. Idealistic. A good friend - my best friend. A much better friend than I am, a much better friend than I deserved. I ignored him for too long after...well, after...and I still feel bad about shutting him out even though I understand at least part of why I was doing it. He blamed himself for not seeing it sooner, for not being vigilant, for not saving me the second time as if he had any more power over that than the first time, but I don’t blame any of them. Even though I had been to hell and back more than once - much, much more than once - I came to realize that sometimes I am better because of it, and sometimes I am simply lost. I did not reach out, I wanted to be strong on my own, and there truly is no blame for him to shoulder. After Christmas, after they found out, their support and concern helped guide me back to where I was before. Admittedly there were times that I felt smothered in their worry; times when I felt that they treated me differently, less, because of what happened; times when they looked at me or each other and thought of what might have been. I stopped resenting it when I realized that they needed to heal as well. They lived with the pain, too, but it was a different kind of pain, a different guilt, different nightmares. I had physical scars, but their emotional ones ran deeply like my own. I have been torn between wanting to know and to help them, and the fear of what their words would do to me. Selfish? Perhaps, but I didn’t want to lose their trust and respect, didn’t want to see pity in their eyes, didn’t want to put my hand through another window because I just can’t stop the sirens in my head.

I can almost say that I manage to go full days without thinking about...about the shooting, but that is not quite true. I always have the mornings when I see myself, bare chested, in the bathroom mirror or when I shower. And after a long day or a long argument when I feel the slight stiffness in my right leg, when I find myself out of breath a lot sooner than I used to, and I know it isn’t old age creeping up on me. I try to hide it, but sometimes I just want to scream in frustration. Most days it is easy enough to ignore, now, but they still occasionally cringe when someone says _just shoot me now_ , or when the formerly common _I’m going to kill Josh_ slips out without thought. I still cringe at loud noises, passing ambulances, unexpected music. Other than these few - almost subconscious - changes, they remain the same. I need that. Especially now, when I almost forget what sleep is, and my mind is consumed with a grand jury investigation, an administration, and a reelection. Rosslyn and my subsequent problems are not in the forefront of anyone’s mind anymore, not even mine. We have moved on, we have become stronger, and any lingering guilt is just that - guilt - which surfaces from time to time, but not often. 

Well, that was quite the deep, melodramatic tangent. Where am I going with all of this? Oh...I was talking about Sam. He’s late, you know. I guess he’ll have to change his middle name back to Norman, because “on time” just isn’t working out. In fact, Sam’s sense of timing usually sucks - as does his coordination and taste in women. I love him, though. The campaign and this administration wouldn’t have been the same without him. And, really, he and Toby compliment each other perfectly - not that you could ever get either one of them to admit it. Well, what he lacks in punctuation, he makes up for in imagery. And besides, it’s not like he doesn’t use punctuation, it’s just the way he writes...what does he call it? His flow. Stopping to add commas and periods ruins the flood of thoughts crowding his brain, screaming to be put to paper. If you’ve never been around Sam when inspiration strikes, watch out.

And I’m straying from my original train of thought again...not that I remember what that was.

Sam is late. Late, late, late. Or maybe not. It could just be me. And not that I’m looking at it, but my watch sucks. Okay, I really didn’t want to start channeling my inner Donna right there. Maybe I should be more concerned with the fact that I have an inner Donna, and that, from time to time, I listen to her. It’s true that I manage to ignore her most of the time, but for some reason real Donna and inner Donna tend to agree with one another - not that they know that - and I somehow end up in trouble. I don’t want to start off on a deep introspection of my relationship with Donnatella Moss...I am still recovering from my monologue on Sam, which barely got started. Get me talking about Donna, and who knows where I’ll end up. Probably somewhere I’ll never get to be. Focus, Josh, focus. Don’t think about Donna, don’t think about Sam, don’t think about...work. I can think about work. That’s safe ground.

I talked to the guy about the thing today. It took a lot of convincing, but in the end, who can resist the Lyman charm? Leo will be happy. He thought it was pretty much a lost cause, what with all the battles we’ve staged over the last few months, but we are finally, finally on the upswing once more and he underestimated my powers of persuasion. I didn’t get to tell Leo, though. He was stuck in a meeting, and I should have waited, but I figured it could wait until tomorrow. It’s kind of silly, but my first thought when I got the guy on board was that I wouldn’t have to see the tired, resigned look in Leo’s eyes when I told him. He might even smile, and there would be a twinkle in his eyes, and he would tell me that I did a good job. I’m not quite sure when it happened, but somewhere along the line seeing disappointment in the eyes of Leo or the President started to give me the same feeling in my gut as seeing disappointment in my Dad’s. I don’t even want to think about the look they’ll have in their eyes tomorrow. Crap. Here I go again...why can’t I concentrate? I had one goal, to stop with the deep introspections, but my mind isn’t cooperating. It wasn’t like this the last time, but then again, I don’t really remember. I don’t think it was.

My phone is ringing. It jars me back to reality, and I notice sharply just how cold it is in here. After three rings, the answering machine picks up. I hope it’s not Sam. He’s supposed to be coming over...I left the door unlocked for him. He said he would come. He’s late, or at least I think he is, but he said that he would be here. Sam doesn’t lie. He said he would come. It’s Mom. Sometimes I go a long time without talking to Mom, and then I feel bad about it. She’s always understood, though, and she knows how much I love her. I was a good son yesterday and called her up for no reason. She told me I never needed a reason, and I could hear the happiness in her voice. I missed her, and I told her so. We were planning for her to come to DC soon and visit, and she told me that she would call me back today. I forgot. I hear her voice on my answering machine, now, asking me why I wasn’t home yet. She laughs and says something about the Lyman men being workaholics. She tells me she found a week she can come down, and that she already checked it out with Donna. She tells me she loves me, and I answer her in my head.

I feel a tightness in my chest and try to remind myself that I am supposed to be avoiding emotional subjects. Trouble is, I have yet to find any. I’ve done pretty well, considering. I am quite skilled at misdirection, as long as I’m not in front of the White House press corps. Wait...that subject is going to lead me back into trouble. Pretty much anything is. Maybe I should try thinking about nothing for a while, you know, cleansing the mind and all that. Nope, not going to work. I’m used to thinking of at least ten different things simultaneously, no way I can handle none. This is hard. If Sam would just get here...

I hope we don’t lose sight of what we’re doing here. We will, though...they will. It will be hard for a while, and then they’ll try to bury it all inside and hide it from one another. Just like I did, just like they did. I don’t want them to. They need to keep their heads in the game, they need to remember their passion, they need to get the President reelected. We have so much left to do. For a while, we weren’t really sure what we wanted, but then it all came together. There was nothing I wanted more than four more years with these people, serving at the pleasure of that man. We can do great things, they will carry on. Oh man, I’m doing it again. The thing of it is, I’ve managed to keep my brain from wandering very deep at all. I could have done so much worse. I will, soon enough, if a certain deputy communications director doesn’t show up...

Come on, Sam. You said you’d be over. I left the door unlocked for you. You’re supposed to bring the food. And some beer, because I didn’t think I had any. It really is freezing in here, icy.

Is he late? How long has it been since he called? He should be here soon, very soon. I can wait...the whole patience bit may not be my thing, but Sam said he’d be here, and he will, soon. We were going to invite everyone else, too - Toby and CJ and Donna. We didn’t. I forget why, but now I’m torn between grateful relief and a painful, aching regret. 

I hear my door open, Sam’s shouted greeting. He’s here. Finally.

But the unwanted memories I’ve struggled to hold back come with him...

_...I hear someone come in, and figure it must be Sam. He’s early..._

I try to fight it. I don’t want to remember. 

Then I hear what must be the beer bottles shatter as they hit the floor and he calls out for me, urgently now.

_...I yell to Sam to open a beer for me, but turn the corner and am confronted by... not Sam... a stranger, an intruder in my home…_

“Josh! Josh - God, where are you? Joshua!!”

_...He advances and I retreat, stumbling into the bedroom..._

I hear Sam fumbling around for lights, bumping into overturned furniture in the darkness. 

_...I remember a flurry of movement, muffled shouts, and then suddenly I am here, on the bed, intense pain flooding my body and rendering it immobile as I struggle to breathe..._

Sam throws doors open, punching the lights of each room frantically before moving on. The additional light allows me to see more and more as he makes his way quickly down the hall. 

_...I hear him - my attacker - as he searches the apartment, tossing aside papers and possessions, overturning furniture. And then nothing. He is gone and there is only deafening, deadly silence..._

I know that Sam has reached the bedroom when I am abruptly blinded by the brightness. I cannot move, do not lift my head.

_...I feel lightheaded, nauseous with the smell of my own blood, sick with spreading, numbing pain, and wish I could move if only to vomit..._

“Josh!”

_...And then there is no pain, no feeling, no senses whatsoever. There is nothing I can do, and nothing for anyone else to do, either. Even if I cannot live, I wait, clinging to the faint hope that Sam, at least, will come..._

Suddenly I’m in his arms, being held tightly as he rocks me like a child. All too soon he pulls back and I can see that I’ve ruined his favorite Princeton t-shirt. His voice cracks, and there are tears in his eyes. “Josh, can you...can you hear me, can you talk?”

I wish I could, I wish I could tell him that it’s okay, wish I could offer him reassurances and false hopes. Anything to take that look from his face, from his eyes. He runs a hand through my hair, resting his palm against my cheek. I thought I couldn’t feel anything anymore, nothing but the paralyzing cold, but I am at least imagining his strong arms around me, cradling me, and the wetness of his tears upon my cheek.

“Oh Josh...”

I manage, with great, excruciating effort, the faintest hint of a smile, and try to speak with my eyes. I don’t think he sees...I waited for him, though. I waited until he came. My vision begins to blur and it feels so cold that I think I’d be shivering if I could. Maybe I am and do not know. Sam places a soft kiss on my forehead and then rests his forehead briefly against my own. I struggle to see him, to see his face, but he has come and now everything is getting dark. I think that Sam is trying to talk, but he sounds so far away. It’s okay, Sam. You came. I was patient. I waited. I just had to say goodbye.... 


End file.
